The Risks of Camaraderie
by BonGarland
Summary: Sherlock's jump was but a spider, at the center of a web whose strands were woven with dangerous revelations and broken trust. /Hiatus/
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! This is my latest project, a post-Reichenbach Fall Sherlock serial. I hope you like, I've tried to be as original as I can. I've started school, and I'm still working a ton, so no promises on prompt updates, but I try. Let me know your thoughts, and enjoy!**

* * *

As a soldier, instinct can often be the difference between life and death, and one's subsequent reactions to said instincts.

John Watson had been an exceptional soldier and doctor, despite the multiple distractions and challenges upon the battlefield for one functioning on every level that each position required, all at once. As quick to pull a gun as a scalpel, halting the bleeding of an arterial wound as rapidly as he threw a grenade, barking out tactical maneuvers as swiftly as he gave medical orders in staccato tones, he rose through the ranks, becoming a captain in nearly record time.

Though he was quickly disillusioned by the gore of the battlefield, by how quickly the comrades who fell beside him were replaced with fresh ones as if the life lost meant nothing, and the general futility of trying to prevent collateral damage, he stuck with it, hoping for a light at the end of the tunnel. But when he received his shoulder injury, and the psychosomatic limp set in, he knew he was done, and received an "honorable discharge". No one had mentioned the altered retirement funds, that he would end up in a drab barracks room nearly penniless, living out his days in a mixture of post-traumatic stress-induced hallucinations and a general feeling of uselessness.

And then Sherlock had come along, changing everything with the swishing tail of a dark trench coat, a rattled-off foray into John's character, and a few quirks of an eyebrow.

And it seemed as quickly as he had come dashing into John's life, he had left, gravity acquiescing and allowing him freedom from the bad press.

* * *

Something was wrong the moment John entered the front hallway in Baker Street, and the feeling only increased as John ascended the rickety stairs, the prickling at the back of his neck getting stronger by the second.

It was a rainy Sunday, and the entire world seemed at a complete halt, the funereal feeling penetrating traffic, pedestrians and noise-level alike out on the streets. But even in here...It felt as if a particular attempt at silence was somehow penetrating the quiet. Who ever said feelings had to make sense?

His hearing, of all senses, had remained impeccable throughout his military career, and if he were a dog, his ears would have been pricked as he approached the door to 221B Baker Street, slowly fumbling with a bag of groceries as he reached for his keys. As he had made the landing, a barely-audible shuffling sounded from behind the door, leaving him wondering if he was simply imagining things, hoping against hope that he would enter the flat and find Sherlock playing his violin or clapping his hands with glee over a new case.

As it was, he opened the door, making it to the kitchen to deposit his purchases on the table before the man was upon him, managing to lock both hands around John's neck as he tackled him to the floor. Oddly enough, John's mind was busy profiling the man, Sherlock-style, even as he was propelled onto his back, hitting the tile with enough force to knock the breath from him as effectively as the hands around his throat.

Clean-shaven. Leather jacket zipped up to the neck. Gloves and a woolen cap. Heavy combat boots. If John had to hazard a guess, he'd say…A professional killer, trained to leave no evidence, trained to come and do his thing and leave. So why was he sloppily tackling John like a fledgling rugby player? Information?

A thick Slavic accent suddenly penetrated his thoughts, even as his hands scrabbled across the kitchen floor, seeking a weapon as his oxygen supply dwindled. "Vere is dee detectif? You must be hiding heem, giff him up and ve are done here."

Did this imply the man was hired, and didn't want his hands dirty for anything further…? The voice speaking in his head sounded distinctly like his former flatmate, and John started chortling as much as he could under the constraints on his windpipe. It seemed to throw the man for a loop, and his grip slackened as he cocked his head to the side, eyebrows furrowing. It was all John needed, grabbing a small garden gnome that Sherlock had found somewhere once upon a time and now used as a door prop slash guardian, which was luckily barely within reach, and slamming it against the man's head, knocking him out cold.

Panting, John leapt to his feet, one hand to his freed throat which was probably rapidly bruising over, and the other still clenching Herman the garden gnome. Swallowing with difficulty, he glanced at his occupied with the miniature stone man, placing him gently back against the kitchen door before fumbling in his coat pocket for his mobile.

Hitting the button for Lestrade, John methodically slowed his breathing, inhaling steadily as he listened to the ringing of the other end of the line. When at last Lestrade answered, John's voice was steady, and he calmly relayed that a home intruder was unconscious on his kitchen floor, and could he please come right over. Little did he know that DI Lestrade was uttering a silent sigh of relief on the other end, grateful for the simple fact that John Watson had appeared on his caller ID after months of silence and social retreat. He quickly agreed, saying he'd be there within fifteen with backup, and John ended the call.

He slowly lowered the phone as his brows furrowed and mouth quirked to the side in confusion and concentration, wondering why the hell a –Russian?- assassin or character of similarly ill intent was in his flat. He hadn't angered the mafia or anyone – hell, he hardly left the _house _- so what was this?

When Lestrade arrived, meandering through the still-open door and stopping at the sight of the man on the ground, John was still in the same position, thinking hard. That tiny voice in the back of his head giggled, muttering something about a mind palace, and he wondered if he'd gone completely mad, shaking his head as he waved a hand at the man. "He's, um, he's yours now, Lestrade. Early Christmas gift?"

"Christmas was only a month ago, makes it a late one, since I heard not even a 'season's greetings' from you," Lestrade muttered distractedly, waving two men forward to handcuff the unconscious attacker and wrench him upright between them, before laboriously starting the haul downstairs. "D'you even know the date? What day is it, John?"

"Um…well, it's…that's hardly relevant right now, isn't it? Aren't you gonna question me or something?"

"Well…D'you know who he was or what he was doing here?"

"I had the feeling he was carrying out some sort of…interrogatory mission, but no, I have no idea beyond that." Then it hit John. "Wait. He was asking for a detective. Where is the detective, he asked, and said I knew and that was all he wanted. I've no idea who he means."

Lestrade was making idle notes on a pad of paper, nodding. "Right, well, we'll make him talk if there's anything to be said. Are you, uh, doing alright then, John? Besides the questionable time-tracking?"

John nodded dismissively. "I'm perfectly alright, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson pops in from time to time and _checks_ on me, and don't even pretend it's not at your suggestion…If you get anything will you give me a ring?"

Lestrade shoved his notebook back into the pocket of his jacket, nodding at a quiet Donovan to follow him out of the flat. "Yep, well, take care of yourself, and we'll be in touch…"

* * *

As the policemen carried the intruder, who was rousing and starting to spit Slavic curses at them, downstairs and out to the waiting police vehicle, a homeless man watched with eager eyes, concealed by the compost heap he was plundering. Making certain he wasn't seen, the man pulled with grimy, woolen fingerless glove-clad hands a shiny new iPhone from his pocket, the device looking hilariously out-of-place in the dirty grasp; he quickly recorded some video of the arrest, panning up to show the address and a broken upstairs window, before sending the clip off with a short message.

* * *

He must have meant Sherlock, John thought. The crazed Russian. It wasn't as if Lestrade or any other detective of John's companionship was anyone whose comings and goings he was privy to. But Sherlock was dead. Buried, even, and there was a tombstone. Despite his pleadings for a miracle, John knew that stone was…finality. They wouldn't have agreed to the grave marker order if Sherlock had been alive, definitely not.

And yet…

As he cleaned up from the scuffle, finally putting away his groceries and putting the kettle on, John's eyes fell upon a mobile phone on the floor, kicked partly under the table and thus concealed. It wasn't his, and as he picked it up, the company logo stickered on the back was like none he'd ever seen. Flipping open the aged device, the saw it was calibrated in Cyrillic, the far-eastern alphabet as legible as hieroglyphics to John's inexperienced eyes.

He falteringly navigated the menu, relying on the miniscule icons to guide his way, hoping the envelope still meant the text message inbox. It did appear to, but every single message was in the foreign lettering, and John grimaced as he scrolled through block after block of text in the symbols. Finally, he hit upon a picture message, and nearly dropped the phone.

It was an image of his deceased best friend, walking along an unfamiliar street, clad in uncharacteristic jeans and a hoodie, but with the trademark scarf wound around his slender neck, sporting a particularly grim expression. What the – an overlaid caption on the photo was, thankfully, in English, explaining shortly that "target is alive. taken yesterday, at Inverness. -JM" and naming a date that was not a week past.

John stared, and stared, his legs weakening beneath him until he slid to the floor, a hand to his mouth as he absorbed the implications of the message. And then he knew what his orders were. He'd been taught to leave no soldier behind.

* * *

Meanwhile, several hundred kilometers away, a text message was being received, signaled by a sound like that of a car horn, identifying its sender without the phone needing to be checked. But it eagerly was, a scraped and bloodied hand gingerly reaching for a phone with trepidation. He wasn't supposed to be sending anything except in adherence to the bi-weekly schedule that had been laid out...

The recipient brushed a smear of blood from the edge of his mouth with his alternate hand as the one worked quickly to type in an elaborate password, unlocking the device and opening the message. Its contents chilled his blood, and he let out a ragged sigh, leaning against the filthy brick wall and resting his head against the mortar in momentary dismay. He'd hoped it wouldn't have come to this, that they wouldn't come after John assuming his possession of certain dangerous facts.

After replaying and rescanning the message's contents one more time, the man locked the phone with a decisive clicking noise. The put-to-sleep screen became a glossy, mirroring surface that reflected the visage of one very alive Sherlock Holmes, before being condemned to the dark shelter of a coat pocket.

He wryly hoped that he wouldn't have to leap from another building to keep his friend safe, but knew he would if need be, before sweeping out of the alleyway he'd been closeted in, regaining the pavement and flagging down a cab.

* * *

**Thanks, as always, for reading. xo. ~Bon**


	2. Chapter 2

**It's been reallllly tough, juggling school and work and so much of each, so apologies guys, but I'm aiming for lengthy chapters in this fic at least, and a long fic in general. We'll see. thanks!**

* * *

"There is no record of interment. We have no marker or tomb under that name."

"No, there's nothing here about delivery of the body for an autopsy and, or processing."

"No, no ambulance was called except for a…white male, victim of a fall off a building, name of Shirley Molmes or summat. Nothing else even in a block radius, sir."

Detective Inspector Lestrade was furious, puzzled, disheartened, and encouraged all at once. Pulling out his phone as he exited a records office at the hospital, his third or fourth trip that day, he tapped John's number, exhaling heavily as the other end began to ring.

* * *

"Alright. Is there anything else we can track for a lead on him, himself? News copters, catch anything on film? Right, well, try...thanks, Lestrade. Yep. Of course not. You too. Bye."

John ended his call hurriedly, shoving his expensive phone back into a pocket so it wouldn't make him a mugging target. Then again, he as much as _owned_ ninety percent of the would-be muggers in this district, whose loyalty had transferred from Sherlock to him, he'd been assured, after the Fall. But he hadn't found any need for their sort of…assistance, engulfed in grief as he had been.

Until now. Now, there was hope, but he was going to need a certain kind of help.

Hastily rounding the last corner and finding himself in an alleyway, he checked to make sure it was the right one. Sure enough, blue graffiti splashed across one wall made a scrawled SHN. Sherlock Holmes Network, they called themselves, and John found it ironic that the maggots of society, the fallen citizens, those who lived on rags and to whom fresh food was a foreign concept, that _these_ people should keep faith in Sherlock Holmes, and respect his memory so. It was simply astonishing.

As John mulled that over, his breath puffing in the wintry air, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers as he paced, a rustling noise behind him alerted him to company. Sending a quiet prayer into the universe that it was his expected company and none other, he pivoted, facing the newcomer.

"Mistuh Wats'n! Pleasure," the man moved forward, proffering a worn woolen-gloved hand in greeting. John shook it with his own, murmuring a greeting. The man placed his hand across his chest, bowing his head momentarily. "Anything we can do to 'elp ya, sah."

John looked around, before hesitantly moving into range of the man's breath, which stank of stale ale. "Ever…Uh, exhumed anything?" He was met with a blank stare. "Dug something up?" A trickle of recognition crossed the man's face at that wording, and he nodded, encouraging John forward. "Well, I sorta…I need you to dig up Mr. Holmes. Tonight, quickly and quietly, you understand?"

The man's grizzled brow was furrowed, and he crossed his arms across his chest, burrowing his hands under his armpits for warmth in the chilly breeze. "What's that?"

Begging for patience, John's eyes shot skyward, then back to meet the man's confused gaze. "I need you to find as many other men as you think you'll need, and bring up Mr. Holmes' coffin for me. But you can't attract attention, obviously, and you'll have to be quick and have it reburied before dawn. Does that make sense?" The man was nodding again towards the end, and John took in a grateful breath. "Now, you'll all be paid your equal shares, whoever helps you, okay? I'll give you a time to meet me, and at which cemetery, and where the grave is in it. Can you do this for me? For Sherlock?"

The man made an odd snuffling noise, and John could have sworn he saw him wipe a tear away with a grimy finger. "'E was always good for a tennah, Mistuh Holmes was. Treated us right well. Sure we'll do whatever odd business yer up to, Mistuh Watson. Sure."

John handed over a thick piece of paper, hoping the man was literate, and nodded, shoving his hands back in his pockets after giving a wave. As he turned and strode quickly out of the alley, he heard one last rustling, and a final glance back showed the man already vanished. They knew what they were doing, this lot, and how to blend in, and look dumber than they were. He wasn't worried. It wasn't as if he didn't have at least one policeman on his side as well, after all.

* * *

He'd let Lestrade in on everything after an hour of reflection in the flat. He was going to need resources, alibis, and a confidante. A friend, while Sherlock was…out and about, doing whatever he had faked his bloody death to do.

Lestrade's reactions had ranged from scoffing, more concern over John's mental health, to disbelief, grave silence, and finally, an understanding nod. It was worth the long shot, he explained, to try to get his consulting detective back, and that was all he would say on the subject, after tossing a sheet of paper across his desk at John. It was statistics from the new year, showing a drop in solved crime rates.

The press and general public could say what they liked, but Sherlock Holmes got the job – actually, _several_ job's worth – done.

* * *

That had been three days ago, and they had both been hard at work ever since, Lestrade working discreetly among the legal channels, John getting the streets to tell their secrets when he could.

He had quit his job at the hospital promptly; really, it had only been a time-filler, something to while his time away with while he soaked in misery for the other half of each day. Now he had a purpose. Find Sherlock. Find Moriarty. And untangle the net of secrecy and danger that had brought them all to this point.

Lestrade had given him the name of a translator the department often used when they had need – a "consulting translator", Lestrade had joked halfheartedly, flicking a lavender-colored business card across his desk at John before he left; it was embellished with the name _Sasha Bastille_ in bold black lettering, with a subtitle reading _Translation and Cultural Consultations. _

Lestrade had said he no longer trusted anyone else in the department, and so the phone should stay with John, while translation attempts were made, and that she would be an asset in that effort.

"This girl, she's brilliant, she's fluent in any ten languages you could come up with off the top of your head, and she's discreet. She's only interested in the work, in the deciphering of the language, really. Gorgeous, too. Not that that's of any consequence."

Sounded familiar, John thought, pocketing the card with a small smirk and a nod at Lestrade as he left.

Pulling out his phone in the hallway, he dialed her office, scheduling an appointment with Sasha at her next opening, which was unfortunately not for another three days.

* * *

And so it was that John checked his watch as he left the transient man, speeding up his pace as he hit the main road, looking for a taxi. He was meant to be at her office in twenty-five minutes, and being late wouldn't color him nicely at their first appointment.

She was nearly on the other end of town, it felt like, in a very classy neighborhood filled with several out-of-home business and expensively-tailored gardens.

Stepping out of the cab, John shoved a handful of notes at the man, thanking him for working some sort of vehicular magic, before straightening his coat and pulling the business card out again. He was standing two doors down, luckily enough, and he entered her office's front garden through an ornate metal-wrought arbor at five minutes till.

Following a quaint stone-lined path, John was grinning to himself at the frilly nature of everything he'd seen so far, from the color of the business card to the surroundings. Reaching a porch lined with pots of what looked like every single herb to ever exist, he knocked gently, unsure of how to proceed, and cautiously inched the door open.

He found himself in a bright foyer, lined with more plants and a small fountain trickling away, a few plush chairs forming a sort of waiting room. A tall counter separated him from a young girl tapping away at a computer, elevated on a tall stool and looking very absorbed. Balking slightly, John looked around carefully, eyebrows raised, wondering if he was indeed in the right place, clearing his throat gently and taking one step forward to pivot back towards the door.

As if on command, the girl behind the counter seemed to notice him, chirping "'Allo!" in a distinctly French accent. He smiled nervously, nodding at her. "I'm John Watson, I've got an appointment with Miss Bastille right about…now?"

"Oh yes, yes, Docteur Watson," the girl seemed to purr in her mix of English and native French. "Just one moment, please." With that, she sprung from her stool, moving towards a back room and giving John a glimpse of her…_unique_ outfit, neon green leggings with sneakers and some sort of leather tunic. As he blinked, again wondering if he wasn't accidentally in a tattoo parlor or some sort of steampunk bar, the young girl emerged from a door, waving him towards her. "In 'ere, Madame Bastille will see you!"

John started forward, noting a plaque on the counter that read "Chanel Blanché". French? Belgian? How fitting for this business…

He raised his gaze again to mutter a quick thanks as the girl in question breezed past him again, and he moved to step inside the directed door.

* * *

Interestingly enough, he appeared to have entered a barrister's office; it was all clinical, professional, highly-polished leather-bound books filling oak bookshelves that lined the walls, simple art pieces dotting the walls, and only the odd plant in a corner.

Behind a black, shiny-surfaced desk that reminded him, oddly enough, of Sherlock's tombstone, was a woman who rose to greet him warmly.

She had glossy black hair hanging in loose curls around her shoulders, a slender form that was very tan, and a very petite stature, he noted, as he moved forward to shake her hand. The makeup lining her eyes served to enunciated their tawny coloring, and only a few pieces of jewelry garnished her ears and wrists. She had on a fitted emerald-green blouse with a modest neckline, behind which he could discern some sort of locket on a chain.

Sasha waved him to a seat, asking if he needed tea, water, anything at all; he refused, thanking her. Her voice had a very faint lilt to it, something he couldn't quite place, but otherwise, she sounded very British. She moved to close the office door, laughing slightly as she apologized for her unique assistant; she purposely hired, she said, exchange students and the like, those with out-of-the-ordinary linguistic capabilities, to keep herself sharp and help them adjust to England.

As she spoke, she moved her seat around the side of the desk, sitting at an angle to him. Most of her clients, she explained, spent their sessions together gesturing at pieces of paper and pointing out letters and things of that sort, so she preferred not to be all the way across the desk from them. It was a reasonable point, John agreed, pulling out the phone, which he'd had to hunt down a charger for, across half of London, aged model that it was. "This _might_ be a little…stranger than some of your sessions…"

A carefully-shaped brow rose at him as she moved to take the phone, remaining standing and leaning back against the desk as she toyed with it, and he backpedaled. "I mean, it's just, the…the medium, here. I need basically everything in this phone translated. And, um, do I need to sign any disclosures beforehand? This is very secretive stuff, harmful, dangerous stuff, and if you're unsure or…"

The shining watch on one of Sasha's wrists jingled as her hands began to work over the phone, reviving it from sleep mode and starting to navigate through the home icons. "Not to worry, Mr. Watson, I do work of this nature very, _very_ often, and not always for the most legitimate of causes."

At his frown, she laughed quietly, looking up from the device. "I mean, every project I accept, as I like to call them, is for a good, honest reason, but the material involved is not always the most desirable, above-board stuff. But I solve problems, Mr. Watson, and I give closure and aid, simply by translating some words, and I send people on their way and it usually works out very well. Sometimes crimes are prevented, bad people are put in jail. Anyhow, I digress. There is no need to stress discretion, is all. Your friend - whoever owned this phone, you believe is Russian, I think you said on the phone?"

"Th-that's right," John stuttered, a little slack jawed at how sure of herself she was, yet in a modest way. It was like a polite, female, Sherlock. He could work with this lady.

"Well, unfortunately you're a little off, but who could blame you? No, your friend was Bulgarian. Bulgaria also employs the Cyrillic alphabet, but the language itself is a fair bit different. Judging from the first couple texts here…It's not a commonly-used language unless you're in the country itself, and I admit I may be a bit rusty, but it appears your friend here did particular jobs for people. A scant few messages are in English, as I scroll through, but Bulgarian is the main language, perhaps as a lazy form of encryption, but more than likely merely because his contacts were familiar with it, or at least these few key phrases, anyhow…"

She straightened from her leaning position, beginning to pace around her desk. Again, Sherlockesque. This was weird.

"Well, as you can see, I delve right in. Now, Mister Watson, can you give me some exact preferences for priority translation? Do you want memos first, text messages, things regarding a certain topic, etcetera. And we'll agree on a check-in mode each day at a certain time. This shouldn't take more than maybe five days, it's not that sophisticated of a phone, but I cannot devote every waking moment to it, alas. Such an intriguing project though…" She put the phone back in sleep mode, turning it over in her hands. "See this emblem? Russian disposable phone company. Won't be able to get anything off the numbers…" She frowned, setting it aside. "Alright, to the details, then."

* * *

The tin, mechanically-manufactured sound of a car horn sounded again, alerting Sherlock to another text from his network. _Exhumation scheduled. Tonight. _He grinned at the vocabulary used, knowing many of his contacts were not idiots, they were intelligent people very down on their luck. So. John would know tonight, at dawn at the very latest, that he was not dead. Or, at least, not buried in that grave, but really, who would think past that possibility except he himself…Anyways, he knew John hoped for an alternative to the situation he had been presented with so many weeks ago, and would correctly assume his vitality. That meant things would be set in motion, if they weren't already. And so he needed to be rid of his tail.

Pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose, Sherlock pocketed his phone with a sigh, taking a sharp turn down a thin alleyway that cut between two apartment buildings. There was some sort of winter festival occurring all over Scotland today, and the streets, despite the freezing temperatures, were full of celebrators, frenzied activity, and deafening noise. No one could distinguish one bang from another, among the din…

Positioning himself flat against one wall, he pulled the Glock 17 he'd been nursing in his coat all day, priming it for firing and counting down in his head. He'd calculated the exact following distance of his feigning-nonchalance pursuer, and they'd step into his path in three…two…_wait. _

Several shots sounded, unnoticed by any but the two involved. And the festival went on.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. ~Bon**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys, it's back to work on this serial! This is an odd chapter, switching POVs several times and sort of laying out where many of our major players are. You can gauge the time sense of each POV a bit, and they do sort of occur out of order, pay attention! Thanks for reading.**

* * *

It was early morning first of February, several days since the attack In John's apartment, and the author of the incident was not happy.

"Shte strada za tova. Pomni mi dumite. _Idiot."_ The man's soft Irish accent did nothing to soften the harsh sound of the Bulgarian language, nothing to lessen the effect of his menacing words to his associate on the other end. "Only Watson, don't bother with the others, as I said." He ended the call with a furious jab at the screen on his phone, nearly flinging the device off the veranda he was pacing on. The high-priced, extensive view of the Mediterranean that lay before him did nothing to quench the fury burning through his veins, either.

When one conceives a master plan, it is supposed to go exactly as it was thought out. No hitches, no variables that go rogue, no bloody _consulting detectives_ to throw it all awry. But it was his own fault, nurturing that sordid interest in Holmes, in the first place. And he could not really complain that the match between them had gained yet another round; no, his human chess pieces just needed replacing.

And then the game would continue.

* * *

A full time zone away, Molly Hooper was rubbing sleep from her eyes and moving in a zombielike fashion, roving from room to room in her flat and gathering things she would need for a trip.

It was not sunscreen and flipflop sandals she was packing, however, but first aid supplies, a few instruments that even went beyond first aid, and warm clothes. She was heading north, to tend to an old eccentric school friend who would not visit a doctor after a fall from a horse.

Or so her story went, as she placed a few believably-frantic calls to work, pleading the emergency time off, and to John Watson, to ask him to stop by and take care of her cat, Fred. The story was harder to put to the latter, as he had always been so kind to Molly, but he seemed to accept it without much difficulty, and promised to remember the spare key was not under the front doormat, but rather, wedged within a false section of an exterior window ledge. She couldn't explain her random location for it, just that it was something to placate her paranoia.

In reality, the only other person coming and going from her flat had insisted upon a more elaborate concealment of the "means of entry" to her flat, despite the fact he and many learned disciples of crime had extensive lock picking skills.

She would have to tell Sherlock that John would be coming and going from the flat, and that they may need to change the hiding spot afterwards. That is, if she could patch him up well enough that he didn't die of the infection he was now nurturing, courtesy of a gunshot a few days before. Repeatedly, she had chastised herself for accepting the call, for agreeing to come, and all of the secrecy and deception that this aid entailed, but she could not deny him anything, and never could.

And so it was that bottles of antiseptic and rolls of gauze warred for space within her luggage with her toothbrush and shampoo, all of it clunking as she dragged two hefty bags step by step to the ground level of her flat's complex, to await a cab to the train station. Dropping the luggage with a thud, she rolled back the too-long sleeve of her baggy vintage sweater, squinting through still-bleary eyes at her watch, then checking her phone for confirmation of the ticket she had ordered online. Yes, the confirmation email had arrived, showing her scheduled to depart London for Inverness within the hour.

She would be there in roughly eight hours; a duration that she could only hope would not be too much. The phone call she had received, which had shocked her in itself – he _never_ actually _called_ – had sounded odd in tone, pained, and muffled as he had quietly requested she come and offer some medical assistance. If he was asking for help, it was bad, she knew. And so she had ordered the earliest ticket possible, gotten a couple hours of sleep, and here she was.

The cabbie pulled into sight, and Molly swiped a thick lock of hair out of her face, wearily heaving her bags into the back of the car and slipping in herself.

* * *

It was almost like being back in the army, John had realized. He had spent a quiet morning contemplating the sights outside his window in Baker Street, and thinking, a hand laid across the violin case beside him. It soothed him to touch it, as much as the playing of it had helped its previous owner. Or was it current?

His thoughts were a jumbled mess, torn between memories, deciphering his present situation, and halfhearted hopes for the future. He was sure it was not commonplace to go up against one of the world's premiere criminal masterminds and get away scot-free, and so he avoided envisioning a completely happy ending to this. Simultaneously, he was picking apart the attack in the flat; obviously it had been discovered Sherlock was still alive, and some sort of prior arrangement had come undone, resulting in attempts made on John's life. Would anyone else be harmed? Should he be worried for Lestrade? Molly? Mrs. Hudson?

Leaning forward, he dragged his right hand from the violin case, putting his face in both hands and sighing. He was stumbling blindly, grasping at straws and jumping at shadows, and he knew it, but what else could he do? The only reason Sherlock would tear himself from his life, his consulting, and all of them, would have to be some sort of threat, some danger. Danger undoubtedly arranged by Moriarty, whose network was clearly as worldwide as he claimed, if the Bulgarian was any indication. Sasha was his only hope on that front, but a solid one; she had texted him late last night, telling him she had re-evaluated her workload, and was going to complete his project within a day.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, John rose wearily, reminded abruptly of the call he'd received from Molly. Her cat would need feeding, and luckily, her flat wasn't too far away. He could use a brisk walk.

Pulling a jacket on over his woven sweater, he headed for the door, hoping for a chat with Mrs. Hudson before he left.

* * *

Sasha Bastille's office looked like the police had combed it for evidence; that, or a bomb had gone off, or so she gathered from the mutterings of her assistant, who had delivered yet another steaming mocha to the linguist. Thanking the girl distractedly, Sasha ran her hands through her dark locks again, mussing them comically and not caring in the slightest. She still had not noticed a line across one cheek, drawn whilst she had been tapping a pen against her face, deep in thought.

The phone she was working from was laid in front of her and plugged into a charger, a large notepad was to her right, covered in scribbles, while torn and crumpled pieces of paper, several pens, and corresponding caps were scattered across the desk. Books were pulled from the previously-immaculate shelves around the study, some laying open near her feet, others tossed aside, unneeded.

A laptop had claimed a corner of the desk, a screensaver concealing a webpage detailing several obscure Bulgarian dialects and forms of slang.

When she was hard at work, her polished demeanor vanished in a flash, and the same went for her surroundings. It was now midday, and she had worked through the previous evening and night on this rush translation job, feeling somehow that it was much more important than John Watson had let on, hurried as he had seemed.

Snapping open a drawer to retrieve a rubber band for her hair, Sasha swept her glossy mane into a sloppy bun to get it off her face, leaning back in her chair and sipping the latest mocha contemplatively while she rested her eyes. Certainly the most interesting job she had done in months.

While she tried, typically, to focus on the grammar and most applicable vocabulary, the actual context she was reading within would come to light; and she had learned a good deal from what she had deciphered so far. A very good deal about a Bulgarian crime syndicate renting out its members to a man named Moriarty.

It would go no further than her unless the client divulged the information themselves, but she was hooked within an hour of delving into the text archive on the phone. And her hands had reflexively navigated back to the picture of Sherlock Holmes, over and over. It must have been laziness, the English in that message. Or someone was in a rush.

Tossing back the last dregs of the espresso, Sasha cracked her knuckles, rolling back the sleeves of the violet blouse she had changed into only out of a muted sense of social propriety; she couldn't very well see clients in yesterday's outfit, if any came. Casting a disinterested glance at her watch, she grabbed her pen again and moved into the final section of the phone, the calendar and reminders.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was very rarely sick, very rarely injured, very rarely even wet by the rain, owing to his intellect and tendency to accurately predict future events based on said intellect. At the moment, he was all three, and he could only blame John Watson, really. That charming fool, presenting himself as such an ideal flatmate so long ago.

The aged gutter above him dipped again under the weight of heavy rain, sending a deluge of murky rainwater into the alleyway he had sought refuge in. If it could be called that, dragging his wounded self as he had, deeper into the filthy crevice between buildings. The body would be found soon, and he had to be away from the scene; evidence and witness statement collection would elicit a search of the area, and a supposedly-dead detective suffering from a gunshot wound was not going to be left alone if found.

He had fired at the Slavic man who had entered the alleyway, but large as he was, Sherlock's excellent aim could not bring him down quick enough to prevent a returning of fire, and Sherlock had been struck in the shoulder and hip before the man fell dead. He had forgotten how bad being shot could hurt, but reason and sense kicked in early enough that he could stagger over to the body, and nudge some garbage and debris over it before attempting to leave the alley without leaving a bloody trail.

He was becoming a frequent inhabitant of alleys, he had thought grimly, a hand crossing his chest to clench at the wounded shoulder and try to stem any bleeding, the other gripping his hip weakly as one leg dragged behind him. He tried to dress so immaculately, to keep his clothes impeccable all the time…At least in his old life. Now he was everything but clean, as he flung himself against the brick wall of the passage behind an abandoned mill, where he would call Molly from.

Panting with exertion and dizzy already from shock and blood loss, Sherlock let himself slide to the ground, mindful of the puddle beside him that was tinged red within moments. Prying his phone loose from the pocket of his jeans, he blinked several times before unlocking the device and raising it to his ear, hoping it would maintain battery power while he needed it. He was already calculating his body's battery level, so to speak, and knew it was a slim chance Molly could help in time.

The call placed, he gingerly put the phone in an interior pocket of his heavy coat, eyelids fluttering as he put pressure on the leg wound, the worse of the two. Swallowing with difficulty and trying to ignore the strong smell of blood mixed with grime, Sherlock could only hope the dead man was his sole tail.

And then the rain began. A chilly northern rain, pelting the already frigid region mercilessly. Before long Sherlock's teeth were chattering, and he knew he wouldn't last long; he could only hope that his actual death would spare John Watson a second time.

* * *

**Thanks again. ~Bon**


End file.
